


honey, there is no right way

by estullefavric



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Aziraphale Whump (Good Omens), Body Horror, Crowley Whump (Good Omens), Good Omens Whump, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Idiots in Love, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Whumptober
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2020-11-09 09:54:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20851514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/estullefavric/pseuds/estullefavric
Summary: Whumptober 2019, Good Omens themed! I recently realized how much internalized hatred I have in me so I decided to pour it into doing something productive.Every prompt will have trigger warnings in author's notes!Title from Hozier's "Someone New" because I love that man to death.





	1. Shaky Hands

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be sad and angsty but I’m a little bitch who loves Crowley too much not to give him a happy ending. Maybe in one of the next prompts?  
trigger warnings: self-harm, searching for comfort in pain, mention of panic attack, mention of vomiting and old blood, freezing

_Again, the devil took him to an exceedingly_

_high mountain, and showed him all the_

_kingdoms of the world, and their glory._

Matthew 4:8

There were a lot of things Crowley despised about his Fall. His body, devoid of heavenly grace, never quite stopped aching after the overwhelming feeling of having all of Her light and love burnt out of his essence, leaving only the charred wings and serpentine eyes. Golden particles of stardust peppering his shoulder blades turned into regular human freckles and disappeared over time. His voice could not longer keep up with divine harmonies, it cracked and broke and screeched as soon as he tried to strike up a tune. But maybe that was for the better. The melodies heard whilst hanging the stars were still sometimes echoing through his skull, leaving him hurting and clawing at his hair and wings in desperate attempts to stop the memories from flooding in.

This kind of pain was pleasantly distracting, but he had to stop after he’s managed to get lost in ripping out so many black feathers that his body shut down before too much blood was lost. Discorporating from wing mutilation, Hell surely would have liked to speak to him about that. He woke up about three days after the panic attack, sun glistening on the surrounding him piles of black feathers clotted together with old blood, it’s dried up pools’ stench drawing in swarms of flies. This was the day his body learned how to throw up.

Later he learned to drown his sorrows in alcohol. It was safer and much more fun, especially since he’s discovered he could miracle the wine back out if he’s gotten too much pissed. Unfortunately, the rotten taste on his tongue would always make his wings twitch in pain. When Aziraphale asked about it a few millennia later, he brushed it off.

But, all in all, all of these were pains he could deal with. There was just one particular torture his serpentine body didn’t stand a chance against.

It happened about four thousand years after the Garden. He was sent out once again to tempt, but the man had been overwhelmingly resilient. They’ve had a few pleasant chats, yes, but Crowley had a job to do and it was important. He could almost feel Beelzebub’s flies breathing down his neck (did flies breathe? he thought briefly, getting distracted for a second). After two failed attempts he was beginning to run out of ideas. His mind became restless. Thoughtless. Stupid.

For the third temptation he miracled them to a top of a great mountain in Asia. It hasn’t been discovered by humans yet and it wouldn’t be for a long time, it’s hostile nature killing them before they reached the top. He snapped, focusing his power and began showing the man all of the kingdoms of the world. This surely had to work. He had to be swayed.

But oh, of course it didn’t. Of course it didn’t because the man just pleasantly smiled and sat there quietly. Of course.

Crowley sent him back with a snap. What to do next…

And then he felt it.

As the weight of the miracle flew through his body (throwing someone across the continent wasn’t an easy task, but he got cocky) he collapsed to the ground, the overwhelming cold of the mountain taking over every particle of his body. It was as every atom making up his mortal shell was being ripped to pieces and pieces, the explosions of the ripples shaking his corporation from its core to the tips of the wings.

It probably didn’t help he was a literal cold-blooded snake.

It probably didn’t help that he exhausted himself from all the miracles and failed temptations.

It probably didn’t help that he fucking hated being cold.

Curled up and trying to warm up a bit with the weight of his wings, he pressed the shaking hands to his chest, trying to focus. They were already a bit blue at the tips and he couldn’t feel his fingers enough to snap, even when he gathered all the energy left in his body and tried to think of going home. When pressed to his non-existent heart they seemed to shake a bit less, but maybe it was his body already giving up.

His mind wandered to thoughts of warmth. Divine light. Those days Heaven was light and cold and Hell cold and damp, but he still remembered the hot stars burning out holes in the universe under his fingertips, all those millennia ago. The hurt caused by this memory was suddenly a blessing, the only warmth strong enough to go through the numbing cold slowly killing him. With the last of his strength he managed to snap and felt the cold washing away, his body still sick and broken but not on the verge of death anymore. He grabbed and tightly held a rock laying nearby to try and calm his shaking hand. _He’s fine_.

***

– My dear, are you quite all right?

Aziraphale looks in disbelief as Crowley piles on another sweater before pulling a thick wool scarf around his neck and zipping up his jacket. Yellow snake eyes peer at him above the brim of the scarf, which is thoroughly pulled up over his nose and mouth. 

– Don’t like winter. S’cold.

The demon shuffles to be closer to him and offers Aziraphale a gloved hand. The angel takes it with an eye roll as they exit the bookshop into the snowy street, mostly devoid of any human presence. It is cold, after all. But Crowley just sighs and allows himself to bask in the warm of Aziraphale’s love, allows it to encompass him whole and make him forget about the cold and the hurt and the pain. His body still aches sometimes, but it doesn’t matter anymore. His hands are perfectly still.

– I’m fine, angel.


	2. Explosion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings: Some feet burning on consecrated ground. Other than that I got soft and the prompt wasn’t my favourite so the fic’s short and not really a whump. There is a small reference to Sienkiewicz’s “The Deluge” here, if you – like me – are a tired gay polish major.

Heaven doesn't like it when things explode. It's always too abrupt, too destructive. An ideal heavenly torture takes years, decades, millenias to perfect, the pain flowing slow but steady, never increasing but never stopping as well. 

Explosions are definitely something humans came up with in their never-quenched thirst for power. Aziraphale remembers how Crowley claimed to have influenced the invention of gunpowder. He then showed up in a tavern the angel just happened to be visiting - absolutely plastered - and blabbered for hours about how humans were getting much more evil than he ever imagined, and doesn't Aziraphale think he should feel guilty about inducing the Original Sin? He never meant for them to get that violent after all. The angel tries to reassure him that it's all fine, but still cannot get rid of the paining feeling of guilt every time he remembers Adam’s fingers gripping the handle of a flaming sword all those millennia ago.

But gunpowder seems to be a new weapon of destruction that quickly gets out of hand, and despite Aziraphale's best efforts humans can now kill each other from incredible distances without ever seeing the life they take away. It's brutal and Heaven shouldn't approve, but they do, of course. Aziraphale thinks She must have turned Her attention away from them a long time ago. He tries to pray, but the words gets lost before they leave his mouth.

He sees an actual explosion for the first time in the seventeenth century in eastern Europe, where foreign soldiers are trying to take over an important Christian stronghold. He slips one of the defendants some courage and a wild idea and watches him sneak through enemy lines to blow up an enormous cannon, turning the tides of the whole ordeal. They soon declare the won battle a miracle and Aziraphale can’t help but smirk.

Maybe he’s got something to do with cannons, because he helps a young man steal one during the American Revolution and Crowley laughs when he tells him about it. Apparently the demon’s temptations of this human have all been useless, because his temper did an all right job of damning him on its own. Aziraphale thinks of helping him, but the man gets in a foolish duel and dies before he can set his affairs in order. Oh well.

But the big one happens in the Blitz. He’s careless and aggravated and really can’t blame anyone but himself. He wonders if Heaven will give him a new body or just restore the old one. He could do with a makeover. Crowley would be ecstatic.

And as if he’d been summoned, Crowley saunters into the church even though Aziraphale can literally feel the consecrated ground burning out the soles of his feet, the damned flesh sizzling under the pressure of holiness. He sighs and miracles them both out of harm’s way when the bomb hits and oh fuck he’s forgotten the books. He’s forgotten the books but Crowley is there and hands him the leather bag with a smug expression. His feet are literally burning up but there he stands, unbothered, offering a lift back because of course he would.

Another explosions occurs, but it’s not as harmful this time, it’s force violent nonetheless. It happens in Aziraphale’s heart and he kind of freezes up and kind wants to kiss the demon right there, but decides to prioritize Crowley’s health over the newfound feelings exploding in his chest. They do have all the time in the world. Unless, of course, it all decides to just blow up one day. Aziraphale honestly wouldn’t be surprised.


	3. Delirium

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since the last one wasn’t super whump-y I tried to get a bit darker this time, but I can’t help it, I just love these idiots too much!
> 
> trigger warnings: excessive drinking and vomiting, hallucinating

It's sometimes nice to indulge yourself a bit. Maybe put on a record, get tipsy on good wine. Scream your lungs out to the said record. Accidently break a bottle, fall into the pool of shards, laugh about how much of a failure you are as your fingers tighten their grip on the carpet, even though the glass is piercing through your skin and letting your blood mix with a very fine vintage.

You see, Crowley certainly is a lot of things. A demon, most definitely. Maybe not the best one out there, but he tries. Sometimes. On his hellish performance reports he throws around very big words, some he's made up himself. A visionary. An evil genius. The temptress, sometimes (when he feels like it).

Anthony J. Crowley is a lot of things, but "calm and collected" is not one of them. Another bottle gets smashed on a wall as he discovers it's empty already. He's gotten absolutely shitfaced in the last two hours and seventeen minutes that passed from Aziraphale storming off angrily, disgusted by that tiny, gruesome slip of paper which by now was nothing more than dust in the bottom of a lake.

But the damage is done, their Arrangement permanently broken they will never speak again Aziraphale won't ever bear to look at him where is more alcohol for Hell’s sake. Soon he's long past the human point of passing out but keeps pushing, desperate to knock himself out, the burn of whiskey never leaving his throat. He succeeds three hours and fifty four minutes after the Incident.

He wakes up to find his body contorting in spasms of vomit, the human shell desperately scrambling to keep itself alive, get rid of the poison. After the convulsions finally stop he doesn't even clean the mess, already feeling his power let go of the hangover, as his mind becomes unbearably clean once more. And he can’t have that.

Another bottle is opened and its contents flow quickly. Good thing the basement is stocked. You know, in case of Aziraphale. Coming over. For a drink. Crowley’s long growl turns into a pitiful whine. It’s hard to tell how long it lasts. He drinks and sleeps and throws up and maybe cries, but honestly it’s not like he remembers. If he lets himself sober up it’s only to miracle more alcohol. Maybe it’s days, weeks. Or just a very long night.

***

The world is not spinning when he finally opens one tired eye. The world is not spinning because there isn’t anything to spin, the darkness soft but stern. He’s warm. He shouldn’t be this warm. But the warmth is reassuring, reminds him very much of a certain angelic presence. He wonders for how long he’s slept. If it’s longer than a century then maybe he will manage to sneak a look at the bookshop. There will probably be some demon-repelling spells there after what he’s done, but just maybe Aziraphale let his guard down enough for him to get to look in through the window. Maybe he’ll drop in some chocolates. Or wine.

His stomach tightens at the thought of alcohol. His throat and tongue burn, reminded of the painful contractions of vomitting.

That's enough. He wishes some light into the dark room and it brightens up very slowly, his powers sloppy and not very precise yet. He's just about to try and move to the bathroom, but then he Sees.

The angel is standing right in front of his messed up bed, flaming sword in hand. Didn't he give that away, a faint thought lingers? The clothes vaguely remind Crowley of some Other Time, as they flow gently in the wind that used to sweep the top of the garden wall but now has no right to exist in his house.

He doesn't speak. He just stands there, with an alarming amount of eyeballs focused solely on Crowley. Why would he speak to a demon anyway? Why would he bother when the said demon just wanted to use him for his own benefit, to get what he desired from the very beggining, to defy God's will.

As if he's reading his mind, the eyes blink once and then he's standing closer and the sword is raised and a panicked scream escapes Crowley's mouth, even though a minute ago he was unable to utter a single sound.

He's not sure when the sword pierces his chest because his vision suddenly explodes, every one of the all-seeing eyeballs blooming with a different colour like a sickening display of falling stars. All of them crash into him one by one as he trashes around, unable to escape, held in place by the immense weight of guilt, shame and pain. Make it stop make it stop make it sto-

***

Aziraphale runs a hand through Crowley's hair with a small sigh. It's slick from sweat but at least doesn't reek of digested alcohol anymore.

When he found the demon unconcious on the floor about a week ago, he wasn't sure what to do. The body he could heal easily, but hadn't touched the brain, afraid of fiddling with it too much.

So he stayed and waited for Crowley to wake up, desperate to apologise as soon as possibile, desperate to fix it all... But Crowley wakes up blind and delirious, he screams and laughs and wails, escapes from Aziraphale's hands as if they are poisonous vines, desperate to hurt him in the most violent way.

Aziraphale's heart shatters into a million pieces with every passing second of this grotesque performance. It can't end like this, he thinks.

He opens his wings to get more leverage and manages to swoop up the wriggling body, press it against his chest even though Crowley's screams keep echoing in the back of his skull.

He reaches out.

Look, you stupid bastard, he says in his head, searching beyond the body and touching what seems to be Crowley's demonic essence. Look how much I cherish you and how much love I can barely contain every time I look at you. Look how happy I am every time we meet. Will you please just look, darling.

It works instantly, like he's found a hidden switch. Crowley goes limp in his arms, the body giving out but the soul glistening stronger than before. There is something snake-like forming in it and it swiftly climbs onto the gold clouds of Aziraphale's feelings, tightening around them like it never wants to let go. He pets it gently with a careful thought.

Please, stay with me.

And he does.


	4. Human shield

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly had no idea how to bite into this prompt, because… human? I tried and I tried and I finally came up with something which… Again, is not much of a whump? Kind of gross? Contains mostly psychological distress? You have been warned. 
> 
> trigger warnings: brief thoughts of self-harm, a lot of corpses in a very bad condition, said corpses are touched and desecrated, vomiting, body horror

The water rises unnaturally quickly. It is a divine punishment, after all. For a moment Crowley is mortified, not knowing whether it’s holy or not – but a feather dropped in an already overflowing river doesn’t bust into atoms, so he assumes it’ll be okay.

Since most humans are already hiding in their homes, waiting for the storm to pass (it never will, he thinks, not in their lifetimes) he allows for his wings to materialize into existence, stretching them out with a quiet murmur of pleasure. They’ve been hidden for a good few months, precisely six – the last time he saw Aziraphale and they’ve gotten so terribly drunk they didn’t care for keeping up appearances anymore.

Well, that is a bit of a lie – he saw Aziraphale today – but he decides to dig a very deep grave for this memory and keep it buried for an eternity. Thinking about the human lives that are about to be taken should fill him with glee, shouldn’t it? But his stomach clenches unpleasantly and he fights off the urge to let tears flow.

Punished for something a lot of them hadn’t done. Punished for existing in the way She created them, for standing out of line, for asking _questions_?

The memory of the Fall echoes, as it sometimes does when he tries to fall asleep but wakes up with a head full of nightmares and the sudden urge to bash his head in. He never does. That would just prove Her point.

Crowley unfurls his wings and rises high enough to see the Arc on the horizon. He hopes Aziraphale had the sense to pack some good wine. 

***

He is not prepared for the aftermath.

They are everywhere.

There is no pattern to how the bodies are scattered. They lay where the disappearing water left them, lifeless and broken and almost not human anymore. A lot of them are missing hands and feet, the fragile parts that decomposed the quickest and probably floated away. There are no eyeballs, broken teeth shine at him from faces almost devoid of all that could be called skin.

Some of them lay in trees that managed to withstand the flood, some pierced through with broken branches, impaled by an impatient tide. There are some which vaguely resemble the shape of a small child, but it can only be assumed from the size. A small bundle of cloth may as well have been the remains of a new-born at some point, but now contains only bones covered with a repugnant sludge.

The sheer smell makes him vomit.

He can sense some angelic presences from not very far away, probably cleaning up before the Arc opens, he thinks, trying to keep his body and mind calm, but the first one refuses to cooperate. It doesn’t have much to throw up (because resources had been limited and Aziraphale’s frown would probably make Crowley rip his wings off and hand it to him, not to mention a bunch of grapes) but it makes do with stomach acid and just keeps on contorting. Something suddenly feels much holier than before.

– Well, it seems like some the evil withstood the flood.

_Piss off, Michael, _he thinks. Pity he’s too busy retching his guts out to form a coherent sentence. He feels the archangel’s foot stomp his left shoulder to the ground and he’s pretty sure at least two bones snap way too easily.

– Pity I left my sword Upstairs. And the whole clean-up thing is terribly exhausting, see? – she yanks his head up to look around and smiles, clearly enjoying the whole ordeal – So no smiting today, I’m afraid. Doesn’t mean a descorporation of a lowly demon won’t look on my records.

This time his body doesn’t betray him, even if the reflex is appalling. The right hand tightens around whatever lies the closest, fingers digging through substances he doesn’t dare to look at. Without thinking he reaches and stabs Michael’s foot with the mysterious object. The archangel’s weight disappears for a split second, just enough for a snake to make a miraculous escape through the still damp grass.

***

The angelic clean-up seems to have omitted it, probably because of its acquired holiness. Or maybe someone got lazy. Or maybe Someone planned it like so. A human bone lies forgotten on the ground, its broken end sharp and stained with divine blood.


	5. Gunpoint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is short and simple, but I actually quite like it. I have to mess up Aziraphale some more, so far Crowley’s been getting all the attention.
> 
> trigger warnings: just some regular old beating-up

Why do these things happen at the most inconvenient of times?

Aziraphale can literally feel the weight of his latest heavenly reprimand, the glowing letter placed harshly in his chest pocket mere minutes ago. If he performs another miracle right now, Gabriel probably won’t hesitate to give him another visit. Directly disobeying divine orders? He can almost hear the Archangels’s voice, commanding him to go back to Heaven _immediately_ and get stuck doing paperwork for the next thousand of years. No, thank you.

So he calmly raises both hands above his head.

– What may be the reason for this harsh entrance, gentlemen? I’m rather sure the door sign still says we’re closed, same as it did yesterday. And the day before.

– You know perfectly what we want, Fell – the man’s heavy American accent makes Aziraphale cringe. Of course, the mafia just happens to knock on his door once more, and this time the angel is basically powerless.

The two men who’ve entered behind him make sure to go up the shop’s windows and quickly pull all curtains down. The look like they really mean business, probably even more given Aziraphale’s history with rowdy customers. His thoughts start rushing. He can’t use miracles, but supernatural physical strength doesn’t count as such, so maybe he can just quickly-

The gun suddenly feels terribly cold against his forehead. When that trigger is pulled his body won’t have enough time to heal, so a descorporation will swiftly follow. He forgot how much he hates guns.

The man doesn’t waste time as he kicks Aziraphale in the stomach, which makes him topple over to the wooden floor. He technically doesn’t have to breathe, but when you get used to something you do every passing second, it is very difficult to stop. The next kick breaks his nose and the back of his skull painfully hits the leg of the nearest table.

– We’ve been over this – the weight of the gun grows on his head once more, pressing it into a particularly sharp edge of a wooden ornament – you know what we want. Where is the book, Fell? We could do this much more nicely if you’d just cooperate.

– We could indeed – his voice comes out a bit shaky, but Heaven be damned if lets them have the last word in this – but unfortunately, as I keep telling you, I don’t _have _the book. _Nobody _ha-

More kicking follows. Through the daze he appreciates how the man keeps aiming for the face, as his precious clothes stay mostly unscathed. A trickle of blood may have dripped on the shirt, but the coat and vest are untouched and he deeply wishes they would stay this way. Crowley could probably miracle them clean, but he doesn’t know if he’d have the courage to ask. When he gets discorporated, what will Crowley do? Will he have a new enemy assigned for the time of Aziraphale’s absence? The new angel will probably be a dick. Will Crowley kill him or try to make peace?

He wheezes, the pain abruptly stopping his thoughts. He can’t see anything, eyelids swollen and bruised, but judging by the amount of blood in his mouth, some teeth have been knocked out. Damn it, Crowley seems to always distract him from the important things in life, but Aziraphale usually appreciates it greatly. When you have an eternity to live through, it’s good to have someone to think about. So he thinks. Maybe a bit too desperately. Maybe a bit like a prayer.

And it’s almost like it really was a prayer, because he hears the bell by the door ring and stop abruptly.

– Hey angel, why are your- _what the-_

Aziraphale can’t see, but hears a few gunshots and is almost sure there’s the sound of one of his favourite teacups falling to the ground and shattering into dust. 

– Oh, you bloody idiots – a loud snap of Crowley’s fingers echoes in his skull as the pressure of a gun disappears from his head. He slides down to the familiar floor with a sigh of relief. Quick footsteps stop abruptly very close to his head.

– What the actual fucking _fuck_, Aziraphale? Have humans gotten too much to your head? You can do actual magic, for Hell’s sake…!

– I have been – the angel slowly interrupts, trying carefully not to slur his words, the attempt mainly futile ­– _reprimanded_ once more. It is very clear Heaven _will _sent me back Up if I don’t adhere to their orders.

– Oh.

Crowley’s voice suddenly grows softer, even though all he makes is a small sound. Aziraphale feels him drop on his knees and suddenly a healing tide washes over his whole body, setting back what’s been moved out of place and gently easing all the pain. His eyes flutter open as soon as they can.

Crowley has an unpenetrable look on his face, but a bony hand is touching Aziraphale's forehead suprisingly gently, slowly running over the imprint left by the pressure of the gun. Aziraphale smiles at him warmly.

– Thank you, my dear. Someone could say you have quite a talent for getting me out of trouble.

– Shuddup, angel – comes a quiet, almost defensive reply. Aziraphale laughs, his head clear and whole once again. He grabs Crowley's hand and presses a chaste kiss to the its palm. 

– I mean it – he murmurs, breath gentle against the demon's hand – every single time.

Crowley looks like he might discorporate on the spot.


	6. Dragged away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unhh, dragging away is overrated when you can perform miracles. This one almost isn’t a whump at all, I’m sorry! .  
Decided to do something a bit different – this one became a short songfic. The song is “The Riddle” from Scarlet Pimpernel the Musical.
> 
> trigger warnings: nothing much, some biting and stabbing

_See the moon slink down in the sky, darling._

_Let your fantasies fly, darling._

_Life is cold, and the game is old._

The night is terribly cold. Crowley shivers and really wishes Ligur had chosen another hour for their meeting. Or just forgot about it overall. Or never demanded it in the first place. He’s pretty sure _someone_ saw him with Aziraphale on their last outing and possible explanations keep flowing through his mind. Maybe he’d been tempting the angel. Maybe he wanted to make him Fall. Maybe it hadn’t been Crowley at all.

But it’s not Ligur who shows up at the abandoned graveyard.

_Just see how virtue repays you -_

_you turn, and someone betrays you._

_Betray him first, and the game's reversed!_

– Aziraphale? What in Satan’s name… – his voice gets stuck in his throat as he sees the glowing purple eyes towering over the angel. Gabriel grins.

– Surprise! Now, now, let’s not get hasty – before Crowley can utter another sound, two angels he doesn’t recognise pin him to the ground and a sharp edge of an utterly divine sword glides over his neck. Gabriel chuckles, in that weird and stuffy way he probably thinks is relatable to humans, but sounds more like a shitty boss who’s just about to tell you that your pay for this month has been cut due to budget restrictions.

The angels grab and drag him through the mud until all he can see is the grass and a sliver of Gabriel’s annoyingly clean shoes. He chokes on the dirt, the venomous snake fangs spurting out in hopes of getting to bite someone, but his head is kept forcefully on the ground, a heavenly blade piercing his skin and making a long cut through the nape of his neck. It hurts terribly.

– And here I thought our man of the hour really had been tempted by a demon! Good job, Aziraphale, this one will certainly be mentioned on your report for this century. I’ll tell Ramiel not to monitor your usage of miracles so harshly.

Crowley hears Aziraphale mutter a quick thanks and has absolutely no idea what is happening. There are three more years left until the Antichrist’s eleventh birthday, he thought both of their bosses were pleased with the reports. Had Aziraphale been blackmailed? Was his mind being controlled? Did he just turn away from their 6000-year long friendship and decided to get some recognition from his bosses?

Crowley suddenly feels nauseous.

_For we all are caught in the middle_

_of one long, treacherous riddle._

_Can I trust you? Should you trust me, too?_

– I’ll trust you to take him Up then. I have to prepare some paperwork for the interrogation, you see – haven’t had one in a couple hundred years, oh, this’ll be interesting!

Crowley feels the threatening blade withdraw and suddenly he’s yanked back to his knees, the sword now a few centimetres from his chest. Before him Gabriel has turned around, muttering something to the two angels who’ve let him go. He feels Aziraphale’s presence from behind, but there is no violence in the way his hand grips the demon’s hair. Aziraphale’s voice is a whisper barely indistinguishable from the wind howling through the cemetery.

– Make it believable. 

_And we all have so many faces,_

_the real self often erases._

_Enticing lies flicker through our eyes._

If he just beats Aziraphale up and leaves him there, Gabriel will be thoroughly pissed. No, this calls for more drastic measures.

His fangs itch and he bites, hard. Believable, Angel said.

Aziraphale yelps and drops the sword, Crowley quickly catching the grip and turning the blade around. He administers a calculated stab to Aziraphale’s leg, minding not to damage the waistcoat (if his actions were to actually make Angel betray him, ripping his clothes would certainly be the last straw). The other angels are ready to attack him back, but a swift snap of bony fingers produces a small ball of hellfire which scares them away too effectively. Bloody cowards.

– Really thought you can outsmart the Serpent, Gabriel? – the sunglasses are miracled away, so the angels can fully see his enlarged gold pupils reflect the dancing flames – You should think more before doing that again, you know? And this one – he grabs Aziraphale by the tartan collar praying it won’t rip, he’s had that for how many years now? – this one’s coming with me, Downstairs will surely appreciate some insight on how Heaven’s handling the whole Apocalypse situation, don’t you think?

Gabriel’s eyes glow brighter and Crowley can feel his divine aura grow stronger, so he gathers all the strength he’s got and miracles them both away, thinking of somewhere safe. Just… somewhere. When he dares to opens his eyes they’re in the bookshop and Crowley blushes a bit, because why _here_, of all places?

Aziraphale sighs.

– I’m terribly sorry my dear, it was the only logical explanation I had for yesterday and Gabriel was getting very fussy. Are you all right?

The holy cut on Crowley’s neck seems fairly resistant to any attempts of miracling it up, but he gives Angel a nod.

– We keep out of sight for a couple days, you go back, tell them I tortured you but didn’t get any info. I’ll get a commendation for fucking with Gabriel and it’ll be all right. We can sit here and get drunk for a week to throw off any suspicions. 

Aziraphale smiles. Crowley wonders whether after the next three years he’ll ever be able to see that smile again.


	7. Isolation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings: a panic attack, closed spaces

It needs no saying that Aziraphale adores being alone. After a full day of avoiding people and scaring customers away there is nothing better than a cup of tea, drank slowly over an ancient tome of magic that definitely deserves its number three spot on the list of The Most Cursed Books Of All Times.

Okay, the whole “being alone” thing doesn’t really exclude Crowley’s presence. But Crowley always seems to perfectly sense the exact moment when Aziraphale grows tired of their endless conversations and still never leaves his side. When they sit side by side it’s comforting, even when Aziraphale grabs a book or three and Crowley gets distracted by the newest smartphone. Aziraphale always appreciates these small moments they get to share without being overwhelmed by the weight and importance of all their duties and responsibilities that lurk outside the bookshop doors.

Aziraphale doesn’t easily get tired out by humans, but Heaven is vastly different. Gabriel’s judging glare sometimes haunts behind his temporarily closed eyes, not tired enough to slip into slumber (they never are) but exhausted by life’s fast pace nonetheless.

But right now silence is banging on his eardrums and he would give anything to hear just one sound or see just one colour.

Everything in the office room is blindingly bright, to the point of his human eyes hurting and watering. At first he closes them and tries not to look, but soon the darkness becomes even more unbearable.

He slouches on the floor, back against the wall, unwilling to go anywhere near the desk on the other side of the room. On it lays a thick stack of papers and a scattered, ripped up note, destroyed immediately after having been read. Everything is just so, so bright, even the glistening letters hurt to read. The few sentences he saw first thing after arriving keep echoing in his head. _You've been demoted._

He knew this would happen, eventually. Gabriel’s been getting awfully scrutinous about his latest report and Michael visited twice this month, going on and on about shortages Upstairs and how Earth recently became a secondary priority. He didn’t however expect to just one day be zapped out of existence and into this ghastly little room, with only a curt note accompanied by a small pile of paperwork, which has been growing steadily with every minute he’s been here.

If they came to him and talked about this beforehand, he would firmly say no, thank you, I will literally disobey your orders to stay here, don’t even try me. They surely knew this, hence this method.

Crying isn’t a very angelic thing to indulge in, but he hasn’t been a very good angel lately. In fact he’s not sure he’s been a good angel at all. Ever. Crowley would probably try to reassure him of the opposite, but Aziraphale knows the doubts that have been lounging in his heart for six thousand years, remembers every small feeling of doubt regarding God’s will, every unasked question. It’s, after all, doubt, that led Crowley to his Fall. 

On the thought of Crowley the feeling of loneliness becomes even more overwhelming and crushing and his mouth opens to let out a scream, but the sound is non-existent. In heavenly office spaces most noises got blocked out. _For efficiency’s sake_, he remembers vaguely something Gabriel presented at a meeting years and years ago. It may have been efficient for angels then, but Aziraphale’s gotten so used to the little things and sounds and smells surrounding him every day that the silence physically hurts. It’s both a high-pitched screech and nothing at all, drilling through every passing second with the force of a dying star.

His body doesn’t need to breathe, especially here, but the rhythmic movement of his chest seems to be a bit calming. Aziraphale desperately reaches for sounds, just any sounds at all. There is nothing. He trashes around the room in a panicked search, the silence getting louder and louder. He screams and screams, his throat quickly sore and hurting, but it's like he's never made a single sound. 

Suddenly great white wings spurt into existence, his psyche apparently too distracted to keep them hidden. They carefully wrap around Aziraphale, encasing him in a fluffy shell of feathers like a weighted blanket. 

But the silence is still there.

It always will.


	8. Stab Wound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> life kicked my ass several times over the past few weeks but I WILL write more of these prompts if it’s the last thing I do. I wrote this very impulsively bc of my love for genderfluid Crowley so yeah, have some barely coherent, slightly horny rambling I guess?
> 
> trigger warnings: blood, stabbing, death

The edge of the blade is thin and sharp. Had it been made from better materials (Crowley is personally partial to stardust, even though it takes ages to forge) it could probably cut through the fine matter of a human soul, dissect all its flaws and burned out edges and dig out the sheer essence of a human being, a bright light unrecognisable to a mortal eye but awfully bright to a demonic one. It’s the only fragment of Her that’s been left in every single human. It’s the particle that holds them close to Her ever-flowing love, even when they forget its existence and turn away from Her watchful eye. They are always welcome to come back, of course, no matter what they’ve done.

Crowley doesn’t have that blessed comfort. He sometimes finds it a bit ironic, but only when he’s absolutely hammered and stumbling through the bumpy pavements of London, only a small miracle preventing his absurdly tall heels from catching in a lonely sewer and breaking off.

It’s all terribly funny right in that short moment of forgetfulness, when his brain stops racing at the speed of sound and he’s not the Serpent of Eden anymore, just a terribly pissed, human-shaped being with trashy snake earrings and a still-stinging cigarette burn on the neck he doesn’t have the will to miracle up, acquired while drunkenly fiddling with the stubborn zipper of his dress in a murky, dark-lit bathroom. He sits on a wet staircase, a sharp snagged fingernail fiddling with the already ripped stockings. A thread snaps loose and the hole quickly spans throughout his entire hip, slowly descending towards his knee.

He relishes these moments full of almost-authentic humanity. They are short, painful and precious and disappear as soon as the alcoholic haze wears out and soberness makes him snaps back into reality.

Crowley wishes the blade currently piercing his heart would dig out the darkness out of his almost-soul, but its clean sharpness doesn’t matter anymore, dismissed by the sheer force with which it’s been stabbed in. The demon before him drags the blade out and instead of light there is dark, thick blood sputtering out. His eyes flutter and make out the outline of a sigil he hasn’t seen since the middle ages, pure angelic work. This won’t heal with the snap of a finger or a hellish miracle.

He falls to his knees, feeling the hot, sticky liquid coat his legs and stomach, soaking through all the perfectly picked out clothes he’s huffed over for a solid half an hour before heading out. Well, he won’t be needing those when Beelzebub traps his discorporated almost-soul in a pit of metaphorical sulphur for all eternity, will he?

He would chuckle if the blood wasn’t filling his mouth and choking him so quickly. Once again, betrayed by the one thing he’s found comfort in. How ironic.

The human shell gives out quickly. As expected. 


	9. Shackled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really didn’t want to follow the French Revolution cliché, so… have this. I may have overdosed on parenthesis, sorry about that. Happy Halloween!

Whatever popular culture made you think, Hell isn’t actually that big on restraints of any kind. Sure, bounds and shackles do a lot for the aesthetic, so Beelzebub does make sure some always hand on the unlickable walls. However, most of the time they just end up being a bother to some poor demons shuffling through the offices looking for lost paperwork and getting miserably entangled in a bunch of old chains that just happen to fall down from a top shelf (Crowley may or may not have continuously planted multiple traps planned perfectly to get the frog on Hastur’s head).

But what about the poor tortured human souls - ask other humans (who, of course, don’t really believe they will go to Hell, but ask anyway, just to prepare for the eventuality). Well, they are indeed souls. No actual flesh and bone, earthly bodies left to rot and become one with the world (Crowley doesn’t really get the whole funeral thing they seem to obsess over so much, but at least Halloween is a fun human thing to enjoy).

The actual hellish tortures are unimaginable to the human brain, because it’s not actually able to think of pain this bright and overwhelming, ripping apart your conscience so thoroughly you can’t tell where it hurts, you become one with all the misery and suffering. All the infamous boiling pits of sulphur and torture chambers are actually punishments reserved mostly for disobeying demons, since psychological torture isn’t generally supposed to work on them (Crowley would argue, but since he’s got a natural tendency for arguing, let’s not listen to him right now). Hell doesn’t need tools to torture humans. It can just use whatever they’ve already got inside.

All you worst memories, each one enhanced with impeccable detail, playing at thousands of decibels so loud you think your head will burst (but, since there are no physical restraints, your body shutting down won’t be much of a help this time. hey, you’re already dead, you’ve used up your chance!). But you’ll never be bored – next they go through all of your traumas, making you relive every single excruciating detail of the things you fear the most so many times you wish to gouge your eyes out (but you can’t, because, you know, the whole “being dead” business). Next are up your anxieties, fears, pains, everything you hate about yourself, everything you hated about other people (repeated so many times that you actually can’t remember anything good from your life). And then to go from the beginning once more (but mixing it up, so you’ll get the kick out of the element of surprise). You get the point. It’s a very self-sufficient system. 

It’s Heaven that bears tones of brightly glowing shackles (now probably stashed in a forgotten cupboard somewhere). Unused since The Fall, they still contain all the traces of dread and sorrow from that day. They held angels down while their bodies burned and contorted, wings charring feather by feather. Some demons still bear unhealable scars caused by the hot, unbreakable celestial metal.

Crowley himself has one around his left ankle, where a futile attempt of an escape ended up with the chain unforgivingly tightening, piercing through skin and crushing bones. He still sometimes limps, mostly when any sources of celestial force get too close for comfort. Aziraphale notices, but never asks, either out of politeness or fear.

The scar itself is usually concealed by a golden snake, meticulously tattooed to curl around his ankle from the knee to the foot. It does, however, move on a regular basis, Crowley usually allowing him to travel all over his body as long as it gets back in place when he asks (it doesn’t have a name, per se, but Aziraphale called it Janthony so many times that Crowley’s almost gotten used to it).

When they switch bodies after Agnes’ prophecy, he hisses at Janthony not to move. And wears long socks, just to be sure, ordering Aziraphale not to take them off under any circumstances, angel, because Crowley can and will mess you up more than Beelzebub ever would. He doesn’t think Aziraphale believes in that part specifically, but hopes the sense of urgency in his voice gets the message across. It does. 

Days seem to just come and go after that. It's scarily easy for Crowley to forget Hell's earlier presence in his life. Instead of creating new minor inconveniences, he can just focus on finding new things for him and Aziraphale to do. It's fun. Just relishing each other's presence, without the need to nervously check whether a random overeager angel is lurking at them from behind the corner, ready to do some smiting. They finally feel comfortable.

It's only a matter of time before Aziraphale eventually Sees.

They're watching the Great British Bake-off, because of course they are. Aziraphale invented the bloody thing after all. They've just come back from the theatre and Crowley desperately tries to comment on how dreadfully boring that version of King Lear was, but angel seems to be trying to ignore his concerns. Frustrated, Crowley hauls his head into Aziraphale's lap, completely destroying the elaborate hairdo he spent almost a whole minute miracling together. His dress scrunches up, legs thrown over the armrest in an ostentatious attempt to get at least a fleck of attention.

Aziraphale entangles a hand in the red locks spilling all over his knees but Crowley, finally satisfied, doesn’t notice the tiny shake of an angelic hand when soft fingers run over his scalp. Only when he feels Janthony slither up his neck to get closer to Aziraphale’s touch (the snake became way too curious after the bloody switch, Crowley thinks) he almost jerks up to frantically cover his legs, throw out a shitty excuse and storm out the door to come back at least two weeks later like nothing’s happened (because that is, unfortunately, how Anthony J. Crowley usually deals with the most impending of problems).

But Aziraphale’s other hand holds his chest in place, gentle and firm. It helps, because Crowley’s breath is suddenly through the roof and it’s only the touch that calmly guides him back to reality.

Their eyes lock. There is no judgement that Crowley feared for millennia, Aziraphale’s face is almost glowing with all the compassion and sadness he’s feeling right now. The demon breaks the stare, hiding his face in Aziraphale’s stomach because he’s never seen him cry, and wants to maintain that record.

– He wouldn’t have moved if you hadn’t spoiled him so much – he manages a quiet mumble and feels the angel’s short laugh shake his body.

– Oh, I do believe me and Janthony get on just fine – Aziraphale’s hand strokes the place on Crowley’s neck where he feels the snake slowly slither through. He doesn’t bark at it to get back into place.


End file.
